Page 65 of Moist!

chapter eight

THORNE

One Week Later

The thing about Lena Reyes is that once she decides to succeed at something, the universe just gets out of her way. Three weeks ago, she competed in the New Vegas Dessert Showcase with a display that looked like it grew from the earth itself—all because she bullied me into building it for her.

Today, her face is plastered across the glossy pages of “Monster Bites,” the most exclusive culinary magazine in the city. And me? I’m standing outside her bakery at 4:30 in the morning, waiting for her to unlock the door like some sort of pastry addict getting his fix.

I can see her through the window, flour already dusting her cheeks, hair pulled back in that messy bun that somehow never quite contains all the strands.

She moves with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing—measuring without cups, mixing by feel, her small hands steady and sure.

The place smells like heaven already, the scent of fresh bread seeping through the cracks in the doorframe. Pandesal. My weakness.

She hasn’t seen me yet, which is exactly how I like it.

I come early. I watch her bake. Eventually, I get my fill of aromatherapy and continue on to make my neverending task list of upgrades for all my property rentals.

Today is different, though. Today, the magazine sits on her counter, open to the six-page spread featuring “Moist: The Bakery’s Name Says It All.

” The article calls her a “visionary,” praises her “seamless blending of Filipino heritage with modern techniques,” and—most embarrassingly—quotes me calling her work “transcendent.”

I’d like to say I was misquoted, but the truth is, I said it with my whole chest after tasting her ube-coconut cake at the showcase. Right in front of the judges. Like some lovesick fool.

Which I am.

The day of the competition still plays in my mind—how she stood tall despite being the smallest person in the room, how her hands shook slightly until she started explaining her creation, how her voice grew stronger with each word.

The display we built together became more than wood and sugar glass under her touch. It became a story. Her story.

When they announced her as the winner, she leapt into my arms right there, in front of everyone, not caring what anyone thought of a human woman embracing a Minotaur like he was the most natural thing in the world to hold onto.

I’m still not used to it—being held like that. Being someone’s first thought in a moment of joy.

She spots me now, her eyes finding mine through the glass. For a second, her smile is just for me—soft, warm, private. Then it shifts into something mischievous as she glances pointedly at the clock on the wall.

4:37 AM.

She saunters to the door, unlocking it with deliberate slowness .

“Sir, the bakery opens at 5AM,” she deadpans before gifting me with a grin. “You’re up early. I hope I didn’t wake you?”

I always wake up when she leaves my side, but I don’t dare say that out loud. Instead, I grunt at the unapologetic glint in her eye. “Never too early to prevent the smoke detectors from going off.”

She snorts. “If you just wanted some breakfast, you can just say that.”

I wanted more than breakfast . “Well, there was heavy foot traffic that I needed to dodge in the stairwell,” I deadpan. “Three dust bunnies and a spider. Worked up an appetite.”

Her laugh is bright in the pre-dawn darkness. “Well, you’re in luck. First batch is almost ready.”

I follow her inside, the warmth of the bakery enveloping me like an embrace. The smells sharpen—butter, sugar, the earthy sweetness of ube that she’s incorporated into half her menu since the competition.

“Congratulations again,” I say, nodding toward the magazine that she apparently received as an advance copy. “It’s a big deal.”

She shrugs, but I can see the pride in her eyes. “Just some publicity.”

I know how much winning meant to her. I do not let her just shrug it off. “Just some publicity in the most read food magazine in the country, let alone the Otherkin community,” I correct. “Don’t downplay it.”

She pauses, looking up at me with those eyes that see too much. “Hey, I’ve been curious about something. Yesterday, Mrs. Kang from the corner apartment mentioned that she was happy to see you actually coming inside my bakery now versus hovering around it. What did she mean by that?”

I freeze. “What?”

“Mrs. Kang from the corner apartment,” she repeats, crossing her arms. “Said she sees you skulking outside my bakery at ungodly hours every morning. Has been happening since ‘long before you two got together.’ Her words.”

First of all, Mrs. Kang needs to mind her business. My mind scrambles over the last few months. Installing updates, and inspecting the property for any potential issues. And, okay, maybe I prefer to do that in the morning when it was cooler and not too intrusive for business.

But the simple fact remains that I like knowing Lena is okay, even back then. “I like watching you work,” I admit, the words falling from my mouth like stones. Heavy. Undeniable. “I like seeing you—safe—in your element. Before anyone else does.”

Lena stares at me for a long moment. Whatever she is about to say gets interrupted when a timer dings. She turns abruptly, heading to the oven, pulling out a tray of perfectly golden pandesal. The scent fills the bakery with warmth.

She looks back at me, her otherwise open expression inscrutable. “Thorne the Minotaur. Labyrinth runner champion. Wood artist. And secret romantic. Who would have thought?”

“Not a word to anyone,” I warn, no heat behind it.

She grins, setting the pan aside to cool. “Your secret’s safe with me. Though it’s hardly a secret anymore that you’re obsessed with me.”

“I am not—” I start, then stop at her knowing look. “Fine. Maybe a little obsessed.”

“A little,” she echoes, laughing. “You built me a rotating dessert display with hand-carved, Filipino-inspired designs, and you’ve been stalking my bakery at dawn for months. That’s more than a little.”

I can’t argue with that.

She wraps a warm pandesal in a napkin and holds it out to me, but when I reach for it, she pulls it back.

“Nope. This one’s going to cost you.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I own the building.”

“And I own the bread,” she counters. “New rule: payment required.”

“What kind of payment?” I ask warily.

She grins. “Walk me outside.”

I follow her to the front door, confused but willing. The street is empty, the sky just beginning to lighten with the promise of dawn. She stops under the awning, turning to face me.

“One kiss,” she says, her voice soft but determined. “Right here.”

My heart hammers against my ribs. “Why?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Because,” she says, stepping closer, “I want people to know that you’re mine. Officially. That the big, scary Minotaur landlord is off the market.”

“Off the market,” I repeat, something warm unfurling in my chest. “Is that what I am?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She rises onto her tiptoes, her hands finding my shoulders. “My boyfriend. If that’s okay with you.”

The word sounds strange and wonderful all at once. Boyfriend. Spoken so casually. As if we’re just two people who want to be together.

Which is exactly what I wanted all along. “It’s okay with me,” I murmur, bending down to meet her halfway.

Her lips find mine, soft and warm and tasting faintly of sugar. I cup her face in my hands, angling her head to deepen the kiss, forgetting where we are, forgetting everything except the feel of her against me.

I pull her to me, reveling in the feel of her against my body. I rise up, to my full height and then?—

THWACK.

Pain blooms sharp and sudden as my horns collide with the metal edge of the awning, the impact reverberating through my skull. I jerk back, swearing under my breath, as the entire awning frame rattles ominously. An unpleasant reminder that I was supposed to update that.

Lena’s eyes go wide. For one second, she looks concerned.

Then she bursts out laughing.

Not just a giggle. Not just a chuckle. Full-bodied, tears-in-her-eyes laughter that echoes in the empty courtyard.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps, clearly not sorry at all. “It’s just—” She dissolves into giggles again. “First official kiss with my boyfriend, and you’re already breaking things? This is so on brand for us.”

I lift my brow at her, no real anger behind it. How could there be, when she’s maniacally laughing and safe in my arms looking at me like I’m the most entertaining thing she’s ever seen. As if my clumsiness is endearing rather than embarrassing.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, checking the awning for damage. “Laugh it up.”

She steps closer, slipping her arms around my waist. “Poor baby. Want me to kiss it better?”

I try to maintain my scowl but it slips to a grin despite my best efforts. “Finally. I thought you’d never ask.”

I let her press her lips against my forehead, raining kisses around the base of my horns. “Come here,” I say, and—very carefully—I kiss her again. “We’re going to make this our official first kiss.”

This time, I mind the awning.